


lock, stock and sockerchock

by earlylight



Series: cabin fever [2]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Spoilers up until S03E03, general warning for tyrell's dramatic ass you know the drill, i guess food porn???, light D/s elements, mentions of Joanna/Tyrell and Tyrell's great Thirst For Elliot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 00:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13154859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlylight/pseuds/earlylight
Summary: Irving squints down at his hand. “Uh,grattis på födelsedagen.”Today’s the eleventh, then – he’d nearly forgotten. Unfortunately, it seems Irving hadn’t. “That was… almost Swedish,” Tyrell says dully, turning back to his computer.“The big three-three, huh?” Irving continues, as though it actually means something. “Wouldn’t have had you pegged as a Cancer. You’ve always struck me as more of a, ah, Gemini kinda guy.”Tyrell has a birthday up at the cabin; Irving tries to make the best of it.





	lock, stock and sockerchock

**Author's Note:**

> This came about through me googling some info about Tyrell for an entirely different reason and stumbling upon the fact that his birthday is apparently July 11th, meaning it would fall during his time in the cabin. This is set in the canon I established in _[deconstruction, or, the art of repair](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12521436)_ (and if you think of that story as consisting of three main vignettes, this would be set just before the second one), but it’s perfectly fine to be read as a standalone too!

**_Well, Well, Wellick: Tyrell’s Gal Officially Files For Divorce!  
_ ** _7/4/2015, by Ella Lambley_

_It seems like Joanna Wellick is officially cutting ties with estranged husband Tyrell Wellick, the disgraced former interim CTO of E-Corp and current America’s-Most-Wanted for his involvement in Five/Nine. OK! Magazine can exclusively reveal that divorce papers were filed yesterday at the Supreme Court in New York, citing ‘irreconcilable differences’. As for why she chose to go ahead with a no-fault divorce, despite the overwhelming evidence on multiple charges against her ex: “She still cares about Tyrell deeply, and believes he is innocent,” a source close to the family stated to OK! “But at this stage, her number one priority is doing what she feels is best for her child, and—_

Tyrell hears a car door slam shut just outside and it makes him start, the movement sending pain lancing through his thumb. Usually he knows Irving is coming long before this point, listening out for the scrape of tires on the gravel of the long drive, but he must have been so caught up in his thoughts that it didn’t register.

“ _För fan i helvete_ ,” he growls under his breath, sucking his thumb into his mouth, trying to soothe its angry heat. Three days, and the swelling has only just started to subside. He swipes a tear back with his other hand and slowly, clumsily, tabs out of the page, back to the Stage Two log – still coming to grips with the reduced efficiency that comes with one hand being out of commission, a fucking pain in more ways than one. How many times has he read this article, searing it in fire into his brain? Divorce. The promise she made him, finally enacted. Maybe he shouldn’t have refused the offer for contact so lightly, what a foolish thing – what has he gained from this isolation, stewing in his own filth in this cabin? No better than a cell, shackled here by Gideon-fucking-Goddard. It’s not too late, she has to see, when he’s done, when Stage Two comes to fruition, that he _will_ fix it – them, the world, everything – and then he can get back to her, get back to Elliot, they can be together, the way it _should_ have been—

“Knock knock,” Irving’s voice calls out from somewhere behind him, the front door creaking open. “Set up in here today, huh? Good way to beat the heat, get that breeze coming through. I had to leave the windows down on the drive up, otherwise I’d be sweating like a whore in church, heh.” Tyrell sighs, shifting around in his chair, as Irving enters the kitchen area, setting down a load of shopping bags. He squints down at his hand. “Uh, _grattis på födelsedagen_.”

Today’s the eleventh, then – he’d nearly forgotten. Unfortunately, it seems Irving hadn’t. “That was… almost Swedish,” Tyrell says dully, turning back to his computer.

“The big three-three, huh?” Irving continues, as though it actually means something, rustling around in the bags. “Wouldn’t have had you pegged as a Cancer. You’ve always struck me as more of a, ah, Gemini kinda guy.”

“Horoscopes,” Tyrell mutters, screwing up his face in distaste. “You can’t seriously believe in that bullshit.”

“Eh, why not,” Irving says. He hears the fridge door open, and the clinking of bottles being placed inside. Looks like he’s restocked the milk. At least one good thing can come out of today. “Life’s got a lot of moving pieces. Nice to get some direction sometimes, help you figure out where you need to go.”

“Astrology is a pseudoscience, at best, written just ambiguously enough to trick idiots into thinking they’re special, to give their pathetic lives some meaning,” Tyrell shoots back. “If some crystal-ball, hippie motherfucker were to read my fortune from the stars, the only thing that they could say to me that would have any truth in it would be that my parents had sex at least once during the month of October.”

Irving doesn’t seem to have any response to that, which is a relief. Good not to prattle on about inanities when he still has important work to do, and he’s behind schedule… Tyrell frowns down at his construct, considering the next line, but the silence drags out – or, more accurately, the absence of Irving’s incessant rambling itches at him, brings him slightly off-balance, enough that he can’t put his full focus into his work. He eyes Irving in his peripheral vision, trying to gauge his angle, but he’s just pulled out a newspaper and is flicking through it, occasionally wetting his thumb against his tongue to turn the pages.

He’s never entirely sure what Irving’s deal is, and it’s unsettling, sometimes. There’s the Dark Army agent, shrewd and stone-faced, the coiled power of a predator, and then there’s Irving the proud family man, working a day-job as a _car salesman_ , for fuck’s sake, wasting his talents selling scrap to the lowest common denominator. Then, there’s this third Irving, this mother hen peck-peck-pecking into his business, trying to make a roost in Tyrell’s life. Perhaps he’s a peculiar breed of troll, shifting from stone and back as the sun hides behind a cloud, or whatever analogous trigger induces this change. Idly, he lets his gaze drift, taking in Irving’s long frame, his broad shoulders, the strong barrel of his chest – yes, he certainly has the build for it.

Fine. If this is the way this is going to go, it’s going to be on his terms.

“Aha, here we are,” Irving says suddenly, just as Tyrell opens his mouth. He folds the newspaper over at the seam, tapping at some block of text. “See, they keep reorganizing the sections in the paper. Print media ain’t what it used to be. So, today’s horoscope for Cancer—” he adjusts his glasses, clearing his throat, a pert little _hu-hum_ , “— _‘A feeling of camaraderie with others can lift your spirits and make you feel that you’re moving forward. You are more adept than usual at seeing where you need to heal from recent emotional disturbances.’_ Heh, not bad. Now that there’s sound advice. But, here, they got a special one just for you, since today’s your birthday: _‘you are a seeker, and both a dreamer and an achiever. Some might call you an overachiever, as there is a bit of a perfectionist in you. While you do need security and comfort, your desires tend to stretch beyond the routine and mundane. You have strong morals and standards for yourself, and you work hard for what you have. Things are not simply handed to you, and you know this instinctively and push all the harder. You possess much creative intelligence and stand out as unique.’_ Huh. You know what, I’ve changed my mind – your sign sure does fit you like a glove, don’t it?”

“That’s the whole _point_ , it’s meant to be—” Tyrell begins, frustrated, and then sighs. This is clearly going nowhere. "Thank you, for the good wishes,” he says instead, trying to keep the tightness out of his tone. “But I don’t celebrate birthdays. Now, if there’s nothing else—”

“And why’s that?” Irving asks.

God, he’s being particularly obnoxious today. “I don’t like them,” Tyrell grinds out, through his teeth.

“Now, that can’t be right,” Irving replies, setting the paper down on the counter. “Everyone likes birthdays. All your loved ones gathered round, singing your praises, like you’re the second coming of Christ, and you get a whole load’a free junk – and, a lot of it probably _is_ junk, but pawn shops will give you coin for nearly anything, especially these days—”

“All they are is a reminder of the time I’ve wasted,” Tyrell cuts in, anger coming forth thick and hot. “Every year ticking over is another year of falling short, I was going to—I _could’ve_ been the youngest CTO in E-Corp history. Another year, and that will be gone.” He slams a fist to the desk to punctuate that last statement, and then again, rattling at the laptop, the pain reverberating through his arm, the chorus of gnashing teeth in his skull chattering with humiliation, self-loathing, _failure –_ that cardinal sin, worst of them all. He sucks in a shaky breath, bringing his hand up to swipe back his hair where it’s fallen across his eyes, and turns back to his coding. “Not that it matters now, anyway.”

“True,” Irving says, and then there’s a hand at his right shoulder, gently rubbing across it. “Which means you don’t gotta worry about none of that anymore. You’re young, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, y’know?”

Irving sweeps his other hand across Tyrell’s left side, both meeting at the join of his neck and then drawing back. It’s embarrassing how Pavlovian his reactions have become, since Irving began their little… arrangement. He can feel the tension in him slowly uncoil, steady itself, at his touch. “I spent my last birthday with a wrench in my teeth,” Irving continues, soft and warm at his ear. “Up to my elbows in shit, ‘cause one of my boys flushed a toy dinosaur and it went full _Jurassic Park_ on the plumbing. Still had a better day than you’re having, right now, ‘cause after I hit the showers I got to sit on the couch with my family, a slice of cheesecake in one hand and a nice cuppa joe in the other, in this mug my youngest made me in his little pottery class. Ugly as sin, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Anyway, when you get to my age, it gives you some perspective – you gotta get the good times in while you can. So, c’mon – humor me, here—” he finishes up on Tyrell’s shoulders, giving them a couple of firm pats. “I even got you a cake.”

He feels Irving move away, and he opens eyes he doesn’t remember closing to see him take one of the shopping bags off of the counter and pull out a medium-sized, single-layered cake in a cheap plastic container. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a gift for you today,” he says, “Ended up giving it to you early, since you were so down in the dumps. The sunglasses, that is. If you want, I can take them back and wrap ‘em up, you can pretend to be surprised.”

“No, I don’t care,” Tyrell replies impatiently, trying to get a closer look at the cake.

“Alright,” Irving replies easily, and brings the cake over to the table, a knife balanced atop the lid. The frosting job – a vanilla crème with added coloring, or possibly lemon-based – is somewhat haphazard, bare patches indicating it probably has a chocolate base. Irving sets it down, revealing the top section – depicted in colorful marzipan is a familiar character, a laughing yellow sponge dressed in a plain shirt and khakis and sporting a tie.

“This… is a child’s cake,” Tyrell says, disdainfully.

“Ah, well, the bakery was in the middle of a clearance, and I was in a bit of a rush this morning,” Irving admits, shrugging. He pulls up a chair, settling into it with a satisfied grunt. “This is actually the second cake I’ve been through today, if you can believe it. Bit of an altercation with a rough customer took out the first one. Hazards of the job, if you will.”

Tyrell frowns. “Like… Dark Army work?”

“Oh, no, some fella didn’t take to his Corolla,” Irving replies. “Perfectly fine vehicle, clean as a whistle, not a dime’s worth of damage to it – moron just ran down his battery sitting out in the driveway while his wife was asleep, reading dirty mags under the interior light. Found ‘em stashed under the dash.” He chuckles to himself, easing back in the chair. “Anyhow,” he continues, gesturing at the ridiculous cake, “Baker gave me his guarantee that this is the good stuff. Can’t judge a book by its cover, as they say. Although, someone once told me that _SpongeBob SquarePants_ is high postmodernist art, just marketed at children. Something about, ah, ‘Derridean deconstruction’? I mean, this kid’s a bit of a TV nut, so take that as you will.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Tyrell scoffs. “It’s just some silly American cartoon.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t know either way, never seen an episode,” Irving replies. “Reality TV’s more my beat. _Big Brother_ , am I right? And _Maury_ , heh, now that’s a classic. Every time you think you’ve seen it all, you get some young lady showing up claiming she got pregnant through her cereal. Talking about the government and Big Pharma putting all sorts of chemicals and hormones in it, so now Lucky Charm leprechaun’s the father. Truly boggles the mind, the kinda people you find out there in the world. Anyway. Let’s have some of this, huh?”

Irving takes the lid off of the container – Tyrell notices that one corner of the cheap plastic is buckled in, smeared with frosting. _How appropriate for this joyous occasion_ , Tyrell thinks sourly. _Not just a fucking children’s birthday cake, but one that’s already been damag—_ his line of thought cuts off abruptly as Irving proceeds to dip two fingers into the mess, scooping up a healthy dollop of icing, and sticks the whole lot into his mouth. Tyrell’s eyes flick sideways involuntarily, following the movement, as Irving draws his tongue around, cleaning the last drops from under his nails, and pulls each finger back out with a slight _pop_.

Tyrell swallows, roughly, and turns back to his workstation. “Do what you want,” he mumbles, forcibly willing the heat at his neck to dissipate. How can he be expected to get anything productive done under these conditions? The Dark Army could at least provide him with a portable air conditioning unit, he’s not a goddamn animal. “I’m busy.”

“Uh huh. Well, suit yourself, then,” Irving says, shrugging. “Me, I’m going to dig in. It’s good stuff.” Tyrell tries to focus back at the task at hand, but can’t help his eyes drifting back to Irving over the top of his laptop – he’s not even bothering with the pretense of politesse, just cutting off pieces of cake and shoving them into his mouth with his bare hands, no plate or fork in sight, icing slicked at his fingers then pulled taut at his lips—

“Sure you don’t want any?” Irving drawls, and Tyrell flicks his gaze back up to find he’s being eyed coyly. Smug motherfucker.

“No, you’re just distracting,” Tyrell informs him, injecting his voice with irritation to mask the hot embarrassment of being caught staring. “You’re a very messy, loud eater, you know that? Spreading crumbs and frosting everywhere, smacking your lips – didn’t your parents raise you with any kind of manners?”

“Your folks liked you to be neat, huh?” Irving says. “Always had to cut your birthday cake into nice little dainty mouthfuls, every year?”

“I—no, we didn’t really have cake, when I was a child,” Tyrell replies, flustered, caught off-guard by Irving’s sudden change in tack. “At least, not like they are here. The birthday cakes in America are so sweet, processed – we have _smörgåstårta_ , it’s, ah, more savory, I suppose.”

“Go on,” Irving says, gaze steady, attentive. There’s a part of him – a childish, stubborn impulse – that wants to hold his own, to barricade that door that Irving is trying to open. But the bastard has him on a hook now, and they both know it – he won’t let up until Tyrell follows through.

Tyrell lets out an aggravated sigh, scratching at his fucking awful beard, considering where to begin. “There’s, ah, _frukost på sängen_ ,” he says, slowly, pulling the information out of him like a dentist extracting a tooth. “Swedish tradition – my parents would sneak into my room, when I was still asleep – it was annoying, I would always try to wake up before they’d come in, but I never managed it – they’d bring a tray, traditional breakfast food, with candles, and my father would sing, _ja, må han leva_ …” He trails off, the memory an unfamiliar weight after so long, stuck thick and dry to his tongue.

“Well, I don’t have any of that on hand,” Irving says, eventually, light and unruffled as ever. “But we can make a new kind of tradition, just for today.” He cuts off a small slice of cake at the corner and then slides the whole thing over, plastic crackling on wood, shifting his chair over to Tyrell’s side of the table at the same time.

“Please don’t sing,” Tyrell retorts, but there’s not nearly as much bite in it as he intended, and the last word teeters dangerously close to cracking.

“Only if you eat a bit of this cake,” Irving counters with a smile, picking up the cut slice between his thumb and forefinger and waggling it in the air, as though Tyrell is some fucking dog, rolling over for treats.

“Fine,” Tyrell huffs, pulling his tone firmly back between his teeth where it’s meant to be – he snatches the piece of cake from Irving’s fingers and takes a large, spiteful bite before tossing it carelessly back into the plastic container, scowling as he chews. It’s too fucking sweet, as expected, cream and fructose syrup coating the inside of his mouth, fizzing out through his bloodstream – some cheap high chased by American children until they’re old enough to earn the addictions of their parents, a self-fulfilling prophecy of vice and avarice, the progression of societal decay.

“Here, you got a little something—” Irving says, and brings his thumb to Tyrell’s lips, brushing across the corner, then pulling it back, licking off a dab of vanilla crème. The implication alone, the promise hidden in the curve of Irving’s lips, his tongue, brings heat into his cheeks as before – but there’s a different sort of heat that’s been building, threatening to crawl up his throat, starting to close it up. God, he hates this fucking day – hates it for reminding him that his once bright potential is fading in the rearview; for reminding him of his parents, still stood on the side of that road, the comfort of his father just a child’s dream of a weak, unremarkable man; for reminding him that he’s alone, he’s so _fucking_ alone – his wife and son, gone on without him, out of reach – Elliot, beautiful, brilliant Elliot, what would he think of him, if he saw him now, this pathetic shell of a man—

“Hey, now,” Irving says gently, his face starting to blur. His hand comes over again – one, and then the other – cupping his cheeks on both sides, callused and warm. “Cheer up, huh? This is gonna be a good year for you. I can feel it.”

“I—” Tyrell begins, but the words get caught in the mess in his throat. He sucks in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut tight, tears stinging hot against the corners then leaking out, running in quick lines downwards, edging Irving’s fingers. There’s a sense of movement, and then his head is placed on the warm breadth of Irving’s shoulder, his lashes brushing wetly at the skin at the join of his neck. Tyrell shudders heavily, breathes in the familiar scent of cheap aftershave and a lemon-starched collar, digs his fists into the seams of Irving’s tacky fucking _canary yellow shirt_ —

There’s a faint click, as Irving reaches past him, evidently closing the lid of his laptop. Then Irving’s arms encircle him, one hand a light caress against the back of his neck, thumb brushing his hairline – the other set warm and steady at his back, rubbing in large, slow circles. He says nothing, for a while, as the fabric pressed to Tyrell’s cheek starts to stick, salt on his tongue, nothing but the sound of his own harsh breaths bleeding through the silence. Then Irving shifts, slightly, damp skin sliding across to dry with the turn of his neck – Tyrell starts to pull back, but Irving’s grip firms, keeping him in place, and then he feels his lips brush his forehead, light enough to be imagination, if Tyrell didn’t know any better. A noise escapes him – something soft, weak, unwanted – he clenches his fists, his teeth against it, braced against the edge of the cliff, that ocean roiling deep and dark below.

“It’s just a day,” Irving murmurs, so quiet against the shell of his ear that no one else would be able to hear it. Just for him – just for now. “Tomorrow’s another one. We’ll get through it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just gotta have some cake and have a good cry, lol (I mean, is it even a Tyrell fic if he doesn’t cry at some point?) Anyway, a very merry (belated) Christmas to anyone who celebrates it! I’m just loving having some time off, tbh. Leave a kudo and/or a comment if you feel especially obliged (I super-duper appreciate every one!!!) or hit me up on Tumblr @[earlywrites](http://earlywrites.tumblr.com) :*
> 
>  **The Fun Fact(TM) Corner:**  
>  \-- Swedish terms (disclaimer— I am very much not Swedish, so please feel free to correct me): _Sockerchock_ = ‘sugar coma’. _För fan i helvete_ is a general ‘swear phrase’, apparently translating as ‘for the devil in hell.’ _Grattis på födelsedagen_ is, you guessed it, ‘happy birthday’. _Frukost på sängen_ refers to the Swedish birthday tradition of breakfast in bed, and _smörgåstårta_ is a kind of savory sandwich cake. _Ja, må han leva_ is the Swedish birthday song as it would be sung to a young boy, which sure has some interesting lyrics compared to the English version!  
>  \-- Timing-wise, [Joanna’s divorce papers were filed on July 3rd](http://www.usanetwork.com/sites/usanetwork/files/styles/timeline_gallery_image/public/usa_video_image/161214_3440991_You___ve_Been_Served.jpg?itok=GPzlYMn5), so I figured Tyrell – in his already obsessive state over her alleged affair – would find that information out near immediately. This story is set three days after his little police car escapade, which would make those events go down on the 8th (not canon, to be clear – just artistic licence). Really not a great time to celebrate a birthday!  
> \-- Trolls are popular in Scandinavian folklore, and it’s said that when the sunlight hits them, they turn to stone. You may already be familiar with this thanks to Tolkein co-opting it for Lord Of The Rings.  
> \-- Tyrell’s horoscopes were sourced from [here](http://www.astrologycafe.com/astrology-of-today-july-11-2015/) and [here](https://cafeastrology.com/birthday/july11_2015.html). It sure speaks to their legitimacy that I essentially googled ‘horoscopes for July 11th 2015’ and cherry-picked the ones I liked, lol.  
> \-- If you didn’t catch it, the SpongeBob cake and ‘parking lot altercation’ are in direct reference to the excerpt of Irving’s novel we’ve had the privilege to read, a.k.a. his self-insert Tyrving fanfic where TotallyNot!Tyrell is going to (sexily) beat DefinitelyIsn’t!Irving up outside a Publix with his meaty damn hands (one of the best Easter eggs in Season 3 tbh!)


End file.
